


Better than Netflix

by commanderlurker



Series: Maria/Leo - Fem Dom OCs [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Chair Bondage, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Orgasm Delay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commanderlurker/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: There's no better way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon than to have kinky sex.





	Better than Netflix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChocoChipBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/gifts).

Sunday afternoon. Rain pelts the windows. Too dreary to change out of sweatpants and go out. Too lethargic from watching Netflix all day.

“We _could _have sex,” he says.

She tilts her head in his direction.

“Get pizza delivered after,” he adds.

Sex and pizza. Goes together like rainy Sundays and Netflix.

“We could do it on the couch. Wouldn’t even have to move.”

_Wouldn’t even have to move_. She can work with that. “I’ve got an idea. You’d have to move to start, but then you’ll have to stay still.”

He grins, dimples and all. “Tell me where you want me.”

“Grab a chair from the dining table.”

He looks over his shoulder. Without a word, he gets up and fetches a chair, brings it back. He doesn’t sit down on it. Just waits. He’s watching her, listening.

“Stay there.” She pulls herself off the couch. Wanders through to the spare room, rifles through various boxes of stuff that’s definitely not junk until she finds what she’s looking for: a spool of bright blue thread. She stops by their bedroom and picks up the essentials, swaps her slippers for heels. She should swap her leggings for a thong, her tee for a lace bra, but it’s a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Back to the living room. He hasn’t moved.

“Get naked then,” she says.

He pulls his tee over his head, making a show of it, as he always does. Flat abs, defined pecs. He knows what he’s doing. Sweatpants and briefs come off together. His feet were already bare.

She looks him over, lets her mind settle, her body tune in. Finding her beat can take time. He slips into his role so easily, and that makes finding her own groove that much easier, but she’s got to be present, got to be _here_. Otherwise it’s not fun.

His hands hang at his sides, fingers creeping along his thighs as if inching their way to provide cover. His cock hangs thick, protruding from a nest of dark hair. His balls hang low. Her cunt squeezes of its own volition. Now she’s getting somewhere.

“Sit.”

He sits on the chair. Hands and forearms on his thighs, like he's posing for a formal photo. Meets her eyes. Even sitting down they’re almost at eye level.

“Let’s do something simple.” She holds up the spool of thread. “But don’t confuse simple with easy. I’m going to tie you to this chair, tease you until you’re begging to come, but if you break the thread, then I’ll have to start all over again. Any questions?”

His cock is half hard now. His toes scrunched against the wood floor.

“Can I test it? The thread?”

A reasonable request. She hands the spool over. He unravels six inches or so, clasps each end in his hands. Pulls until the thread digs into the flesh of his fingers and snaps. It’s pretty strong. He'll have to really exert himself if he's going to break it.

He hands the spool back. Eyes bright. Grin wide. “Okay.”

"Will here be okay?” She drags her finger from the round of his left shoulder, over the bone of his clavicle, skirts the base of his throat, and finishes in the crease of his right arm pit. She leaves a trail of goosebumps in her wake.

“Yeah, yeah that’s fine.”

“What about here?” She leans in and cups his balls. Warm. Heavy. She rolls them, rotates her wrist to grip his cock. Drags up. Down. Up.

He swallows, hardens in her hand. “Maybe.” It’s a croak.

She lets go. Maybe’s not good enough for her. She says so, and he revises his answer to _no_. He looks relieved.

She walks behind him, tucking the thread into her waistband for the moment. Sets her hands on his shoulders. Takes a breath. His skin is warm, shoulders thick. His traps are tight. She takes her time feeling the muscle, allowing herself the gratuitous pleasure as she works her way down his biceps, triceps, to his forearms. He takes the hint when she pulls on his wrists, draws them together behind the chair. She kneels, kisses the insides of each wrist. She makes a knot around one, wraps the thread around his other, cinching them together. It’s not easy with thread--rope is more manageable--but he can’t see her struggling with thin floppy thread so no damage done to her image.

“Okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t flex. He’s statue still. That won’t last long.

Here’s the fun part: tying. She weaves the thread in and over, wrapping his arms in a herringbone pattern. She keeps the thread tight so it doesn’t slip, and to give him a challenge. He must feel the thread cutting into him, deep on his fleshier muscle, shallow elsewhere. The blue pops against his skin, like electricity, or lightning.

Once she reaches the top of his arms, she pulls the thread across his clavicle, mimicking the trail she’d made with her finger earlier. After a handful of threaded chevrons over his chest, securing him to the back of the chair, she ties a knot. Admires her work. It’s more delicate than rope. Subtle. But harsher, too, the way the thread creates valleys from his muscle.

“You look so good.”

He smiles. She kisses him, forcing him to tilt his head up. A creak: thread pulling against the wooden chair. He freezes. He looks like he’s just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The thread holds.

Legs last. She spirals the thread from his ankles, up his calves, tying him to the chair leg, spreading him open. His thighs--those thick, tree trunk thighs--pose a problem. Can’t tie him in place like this. She rocks his knee. It doesn’t budge. Good.

She kneels back. The thread, the chair, his hands behind him--he’s all hers. What to do with him now?

Easy enough to go straight for his cock, but there are other ways to tease him. A fingernail down his chest, to his navel. Hard enough to leave a red line. His nipples are right there, ripe for tweaking. So responsive, too. The harder they get, the harder she rolls them. And there’s the thread of course. She traces the path of the thread over his chest and shoulders, admiring her own work. She sidles around his flank, tickles him. He jerks, holds his breath, and though she can’t see his face, she can see the edges of a grimace. It’s a mean move, but it’s more of a test of the thread than of him. Better it breaks now than later.

It holds.

She returns to the front. Leans in, hands on his thighs, kisses him deeply. He’s such a good kisser. Even more so when he’s bound.

She slides back. Settles between his knees. He’s hard. Musky, salty. And there’s a lot of him. Thick and long, vein bulging from his balls to his head. She taps, watches his cock bob. And because she can, she licks her lips and closes them over his head.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

She lets go and looks up. Smiles benignly. “Problem?”

“You’re gonna kill me if you do that.”

“Good.” She closes around him again, deeper this time, filling her mouth. He groans. Squirms. But he can’t go far. She’s not even going to try taking all of him. She does what she can, swirling her tongue over his skin, tasting the salt. His cock twitches, presses against the roof of her mouth, the flat of her tongue. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t look to see if he’s looking. She closes her eyes and savours the taste, smell, feel of his cock in her mouth. And she fondles his balls, juggling to get her hand around them, between him and the seat of the chair. He groans louder. She keeps massaging, sucking. Strokes his thigh with her free hand. He vibrates against her, muscles tight. His toes scrape against the floor, loud enough to hear over the rain outside. When she tastes the precome, she pops off, lets go. Now she looks up. He sighs, head back, mouth open.

She doesn’t let him rest long. Just long enough for her to squeeze cold lube onto her hand. She wraps her hand around his cock. Slides down. Slides up. Slow. Lazy. He’s so thick her fingers can’t meet. Her own body reacts, cunt and nipples tingling. But it’s the noises he makes that really make her smile. He groans long and low. His breath quickens, then slows as he brings himself under control. He described his meditation to her once, how he controls his breathing to focus his mind, concentrate on his body, the sensations, his reactions to whatever she does; edging--like this--or spanking, bondage. They've done a lot together, explored the depths of their pleasure, physical and mental. Discovered hidden paths, uncovered secrets. Come closer together.

He pulses under her hand and she lets go. His groan is more frustrated now. His smile strained. She smiles back. She’s enjoying this. He must be to. He wouldn’t suggest it otherwise. 

His breathing levels out so she takes him in her hand again, faster this time, but not by much.

She’s learned how to read his body, so this time she pushes him that little bit further, her gentle cooing encouragement an agonising contrast to the deliberate action of her hand.

And she stops.

His body relaxes. The thread has shifted along his collarbone, but not enough to indicate a break. She makes a show of checking, as much to give her knees a rest as anything else.

When she’s done, she shimmies out of her leggings. Her underwear sticks to her cunt as she peels them off. She perches herself on his knees, legs spread. The hem of her tee meets her thighs. The air is refreshing on her cunt, free from the cloying warmth of her leggings. Her heels give her much needed lift. And instead of touching him, she touches herself, slips her finger over her clit, through her folds, rubbing and circling and giving herself a damn good fingering. She’s wet, slick with arousal, surprises herself when she comes so easily. She lets her orgasm take over, jerking and pulsing. And she watches him the whole time. _Look at what I can do_, her expression says. _Don’t you wish you could do the same?_

With her body all free and loose, she returns to him, bound tight.

Wraps both hands around his cock, slick and smooth, stroking, squeezing. Lube mingles with her juice, his sweat--the smell intoxicating. Sweat beads along his hairline, shimmers on his chest. He moans, body tight, cock pulsing--

And she stops.

He shivers.

She drags her nails down the insides of his thighs once, twice.

His smile is gone. Not even peeling her tee off is enough to bring it back. She fingers her nipples, arches her back. She’s got a great rack, and it would be unfair of her if she didn’t let him touch them. Very unfair. So she stands, walks to his side. He looks up, like he can’t believe what he sees, what she’s offering. He doesn’t take the hint, or maybe he doesn’t think he’s allowed. She cups his head, directs him so he can kiss and lick and tease her himself. His mouth on her nipple, her fingers on her clit, and she comes again. She pulls him away with her hand gripped in his hair.

“I gotta come soon.” His voice is scratchy. His cheeks are pink, pupils blown, looking through her like he’s drunk. He’s reaching his limit.

“Just a little longer.” She kisses his brow. “You’re doing so well.”

“I’m gonna need a whole pizza after this. With extra cheese. And peppers. And jalapenos. And I’m getting a side of wings.”

She laughs. “You can have whatever you want, babe. Just a little longer.” Babe. She’s so soft.

He nods.

She rolls a condom on and takes a moment to again appreciate just how thick he is. She’d never considered herself a size queen before she met him. Truth be told, she wasn’t eager to have him in her when she first saw him naked. But he’d been considerate, let her set the pace, like he knew what a hazard his cock could be. That he’d gone down on her for so long that she’d lost track of time also helped.

“Ready, babe?” She cups the side of his head, rubs his hair through her fingers, closes her hand around a fistful of hair. He’s damp and smells sweetly of sweat. She won’t tease him _too _much.

She repeats her move from earlier but shuffles her way forward this time, swinging her hips to smooth out the action, her heels giving her the extra height she needs. Her cunt presses against his cock. He groans. His thighs are warm. His skin slick. They’re so close, closer than they’ve been all afternoon. She smooths his eyebrows and kisses him between the eyes. He starts mumbling again. Her cunt drips--she’s so wet. The smell is divine. And just because she can, she slicks up her fingers and presses them to his lips. His tongue darts out and licks her fingers clean.

“You like that?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

“Do you want more?”

“_Please_.”

Since he’s done so well so far, she indulges him, letting him suck the juice from her fingers two more times. The way he wraps his tongue on her fingers hints at what he’s like with his face buried between her legs. The thought makes her cunt clench. She leaves his lips with a parting gift: a smear of juice on his upper lip. He goes to lick.

“Leave it. I want you to be able to smell me while I fuck you.”

His groan is deep. She feels it in her thighs. And she chooses that moment to guide him in. Fuck, he’s thick. Her cunt stretches as his head pushes in. She pauses to savour the ache, appreciate his girth. And she slides down. Slowly. Slowly. Feeling every inch of him fill her. She won’t be able to get him all in first time, so she slides up, up, just until the tip of his head threatens to pop out. She holds him there and feels his whole body tense.

“Don’t you dare come out.” That’s mean. He has no control over that. But maybe she’s telling his cock, not him. She can’t tell. She’s buzzed, like she’s tipsy. She slides down, craving that burn. She’s sure she got further this time. She sets a slow pace, forearms braced on his traps. Every time she gets lower, can feel it deep inside, tight against her walls, until finally, _finally,_ the backs of her thighs meet the tops of his.

A whine makes her look up from where their bodies meet. He’s trembling, eyes wide. Oh, right, there’s a person attached to this cock.

“Still with me?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Closes his eyes. Purses his lips. His body is coiled tight, muscle straining under the thread. It better not break, not now, not after how far they’ve come. She holds her breath, forces her legs to take her weight so she can give him some space. Her instinct is to stroke his hair, but she tamps that down. If he’s as close as she thinks he is, any little touch could trigger a shake that would trigger his orgasm. Or worse, snap the thread.

She waits, her cunt aching, her legs burning. It’s nothing on what he’s endured so far, so she remains stoic.

His eyes open with the freshness of the sun after a shower. “Sorry. I should have said something. I didn’t come. You’re just … God.”

She smiles. “I wouldn’t go that far, but thank you.”

Takes him a moment to get it, then he grins. “I’d kiss you if I could.” He looks her down and up. “And more.” His voice is thick.

Break time’s over.

She fucks him slowly, as much for herself as him. He watches her this time, eyes on hers. Their breaths mingle, the stink of their sex, the slick of sweat and lube.

Her nipples tingle, her clit aching for attention. She obliges them both, letting go of his shoulders to rub her nipple with one hand, stroke her clit with the other.

“You can come when I’ve come,” she says.

She’s already come twice. The third will be easy but she still drags out her own pleasure. He just _feels_ so good. _Looks_ so good.

When his lips start trembling and his eyes start fluttering closed, she knows it’s time to come. She grinds against him, rubs her clit, and clenches around his cock as she orgasms in rolling waves. He gasps.

“Wait,” she orders. Her body spasms, pleasure throbbing through her veins, all the way to her toes. She arches her back, his cock thick and deep inside.

She brings her hand from her clit to his lips, nods to the question he asks with his eyes. He licks her fingers, sucks, moans, comes. Even as he comes he controls himself, holding himself taut, not daring to break the thread. He channels all his energy through his voice, humming against her fingers, then groaning out loud in exhausted relief.

They stay locked together for a moment, long enough to bathe in their afterglow.

She won’t admit it, but her groin and thighs burn as she climbs off his cock and lap. She steadies herself on his shoulders. And because she doesn’t need them anymore, she kicks off her heels. And because it’s her style, she throws her tee back on. He can stay naked though. She at least removes the condom and chucks it.

“Did I do it?” he asks.

She makes a show of checking the thread, tracing her finger over the grooves on his chest, his arms, his legs. “Perfect.”

He beams.

She starts untying him. Legs first. She’s able to snap the thread using her nail. The thread loosens and she peels it away. He wiggles his toes, jiggles his legs. Up to his chest and arms. The thread has left deep, red lines in his fleshy muscle. Nothing that won’t rub away with time.

Uncoiling the thread is just as delicious as binding him. The tension is different now, hazy, satisfying, marked with success. He remains still, waits until she’s removed the thread completely and run her hands down his arms, giving his fingers a squeeze, before he moves. He lets his arms hang by his sides, rolls his neck. The joints click. Rolls his shoulders. Shakes his arms. Stands.

She looks up at him, over his marked body. Presses her forearms to his chest and leans up on tiptoes to kiss him.

“Better than Netflix,” he says.

She slaps his ass. “I’ll order the pizza. You get in the shower.”

“Extra cheese and jalapeno, and don’t forget the wings,” he says over his shoulder.

“You’re so bossy,” she yells.

“Love you too.” The bathroom door closes behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> For ChocoChipBiscuit. I really liked the string idea from your minotaur prompt but try as I might, I couldn't get my minotaur idea working, so I used the idea in this fic.


End file.
